


Sun’s Fade

by Darkrealmist



Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [14]
Category: The House of the Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Battle, Canon - Video Game, Character Study, Free Verse, Gen, Genetics, Gothic, Guns, Horror, Mutants, Plants, Poetry, Post-Apocalypse, Prose Poem, Rescue Missions, Science Fiction, Spies & Secret Agents, Survival Horror, Tarot, Tentacles, Trees, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 500-1.000, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: A poem based on the blooming of the Sun, set during The House of the Dead III.





	Sun’s Fade

Sun’s Fade

Author’s Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.

Summary:

A poem based on the blooming of the Sun, set during _The House of the Dead III_.

* * *

The verticality of the EFI Research Facility is an indoor hedge maze, sowing sensory chaos.  
Aztec jungle, where tentacles attack through the pipes, and Cain’s deformities thrive under a dead sun.  
After repetitious corridors and stairs, finally, Lisa and G are out. But in the atrium is not a welcome tree.  
What the hell is that thing?  
Photosynthesizes formaldehyde, the greenhouse gangrene.  
Carbon monoxide and blood absorbed via venomous stalk. Moans aerated out rigour-stunted stomata.  
Root-rotted kodama. Canker of the Meliae. Degraded Lauma’s bark rubbing.  
Bile-sap and chlorophyll expelled from a trunk ringed with human visages, fruitless season upon season.

Tendrils slowly coil around the columns, fanged flowers on each dripping with underfed resin.   
Starved xylem-feelers slither beneath the topsoil, picking up dirt from the ubiquitous grave.  
Snake-haired gustatory wildness. Mortivore’s leafless petiole-branches stem-harass the ceiling.

Fertilizer for itself, an angry mountain of mulch.  
In need of weeding, pruning, or unsympathetic cutting down?  
The petals open, and the four pods budding within spew mouthfuls of thorny spores.  
Elongating to spit delayed sepsis in the faces of the parent-stripped girl and her godfather.  
Marred by shotgun shells, the withered life-giver is denuded its energy source.  
Massive organ failure erupts the bough. Its sprigs deflate limp.  
She’d rather not garden. Rather not demonstrate the wobbliness of her green thumb.  
Not ready to be pushing up daisies just yet.

It was eight thousand eight hundred thirty, planted once, the bright inside the bleak.

The willow weeps, for it is hybridized.

So scabbed, a poisoned apple off the vine in the BIO Lab.


End file.
